Facing the Music

by Brian Smith

  Mike sauntered into the kitchen where Lissa was peeling vegetables. ‘No sign of Mary?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I wonder where she can be.’

  ‘I’ll give her a call.’

  ‘I’ve already done that. Both her mobile and her home phone go through to message bank.’

  Mike frowned.

  ‘When she rang yesterday, saying she was ill, did she say anything about bailing out today? Surely she would ring if she was still sick. And to miss Dad’s name day!’

  Lissa glared back at him. ‘I don’t know. What I do know is that Mary had agreed to work with me on this and now I have to cope on my own, so if you don’t mind, or even if you do …’

  ‘Ah Lissa, Mike, there you are.’ A full bosomed woman in her late sixties swept into the room and embraced them both.

  ‘Brioni! So good to see you.’

  Mike had never heard Lissa greet his aunt so enthusiastically. ‘I’m getting a bit behind and could do with some help.’

  ‘That’s why we’re early. I always like to lend a hand. Now, Mike, leave us. This is women’s business. Go and join Kostas and your father. They’ll be complaining to each other about the price of vegetables.’

  Brioni was right. Mike found Kostas, who had grown vegetables at Werribee for almost as long as Demetri had sold them, and had been married to Demetri’s sister for only a few years less, sitting sharing a beer with his father.

  ‘It’s the middle-men,’ Kostas declared. ‘Them and the supermarket chains. I get nothing for growing the stuff and you get nothing for selling it. We’re both being screwed.’

  Vern sipped the mug of sweet, black tea and looked out from the Flinders Village Cafe at the falling rain. It had been sunny and warm when he left Melbourne and it was only at this end of the Peninsula that he ran into squally showers from broken clouds that raced across the sky between bursts of sunshine. The drive down had taken less time than he expected, so he had stopped for a cup of tea and found himself among a crowd of people enjoying a leisurely brunch.

  A large, black SUV travelled past the cafe sending up a spray from both sides. Was this the car Mike had claimed to see, now making its way to Angelo Rossi’s place for the meeting? Fanciful to think so – black SUVs were the vehicle of choice on the roads around here. But now he was here, it felt more like going into the lion’s den than it had before. Perhaps he should have told someone he was coming down but he was reluctant to let anyone else know what he was up to. Taking Mike into his confidence was a calculated risk. He needed to know where Mike stood; he was a key player in his plans. Vern took another sip of his tea and gave a rueful smile. If he did get into strife today, having someone know he was here wasn’t going to help him.

  The guests were beginning to arrive: cousins with their spouses and children, neighbours and old friends from the area, some of the other past and present traders from Bay Street, all the employees from Georgiou’s three shops, together with their families, and a few remaining fossils from South Melbourne Hellas. Demetri stood in the hallway beside the front door welcoming his guests and accepting their congratulations and good wishes. Mike stood further back, looking out for Mary who had still not arrived nor phoned.

  At last he saw her, although for a moment he was not sure it was her. She had a new hairstyle, which pulled her hair forward across her forehead and down one side of her face, and she approached her father with the diffidence of someone unsure of their welcome. As Demetri grasped her in his bear hug, her head held so that Mike was looking directly into her face, she winced and the lock of hair fell away, revealing a bruise running from her eyebrow to the side of her head. When free of her father’s embrace, her hair back in its covering place, she tried to walk straight past Mike, saying, ‘Sorry I’m late. Must get into the kitchen to help Lissa.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ Mike ordered, sounding to his ears like a movie gangster. He grabbed her arm swathed in the long sleeves of her dress and she yelped in pain. ‘Not just your face, then.’

  ‘Stop. You’re hurting me,’ she hissed.

  She tried to pull away but Mike retained his grip. He steered her along a corridor to the second bedroom, which was seldom used for anything but storage these days. Once inside, he shut the door, let go of Mary and stood with his arms folded.

  ‘OK. What happened?’

  Mary stood rubbing her arm and glaring at him. ‘You always make such a fuss. It was nothing really.’

  Mike continued to stare at her and the sharpness in her voice softened.

  ‘We were both drunk and got into a silly argument. I started it by saying that taking us out like he’d done didn’t make up for missing today and he should tell them he couldn’t make it. Shane said it was important for him to be there but wouldn’t tell me where he was going or what he would be doing. It was my fault. I should have let it go, but I goaded him, said he was making it up and just wanted a weekend away with his mates. He’s apologised. In the morning we’d both sobered up and could see how stupid we’d been.

  ‘Can’t you just let it go? she pleaded. ‘It mustn’t spoil Dad’s day. As it is I’ve let Lissa down badly. Not a good way to start our partnership.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Hasn’t she told you?’

  Mike made no reply. It was the second time this weekend he’d been told a member of his family was keeping something from him.

  Bruno drove the black Land Cruiser into the carport beside Angelo’s Porsche and cut the engine. The four men stepped from the vehicle almost simultaneously and the sounds of slamming car doors were like a volley of shots. When Shane raised his arms to stretch his large frame, the stiff breeze, carrying the tang of salt water, ruffled his long, fair hair. Another man, even taller than Shane, also stretched, but his baseball cap, apparently a permanent attachment to his head, withstood the wind’s grasp.

  ‘Rick, do you stick that cap on with glue?’ Ivan asked and hunched his shoulders against the wind. ‘It’s a lot warmer up in town,’ he complained as he pressed the button on the security system beside the front door. At first there was no response, except for the arrival of the next shower, blown in on them as they huddled under the inadequate overhang. Bruno nudged Ivan aside and pressed the button with great force.

  ‘Come on, you bugger,’ he grunted.

  Eventually the door opened to reveal Angelo Rossi, the collar of a red linen shirt showing above a white cashmere jumper.

  ‘Come in,’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘You caught me at the other end of the house.’ He led them down the steps to the spacious living room, where a curved wall of glass allowed an uninterrupted view of low cloud and scudding rain.

  ‘Doesn’t look like we’ll be eating outside today. We can still use the barbecue – it’s under cover.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Ivan replied.

  Angelo shook his head and made a sound, which could have been a cough or a scoff. ‘There’s nothing else here,’ he said. ‘Beside the grog, of course.’ He looked away from Ivan to the others and said, ‘How’s the knee, Bruno? Back on your feet, but I see you’re still favouring it.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Bruno growled.

  ‘A nasty business. I hear it was Mike Georgiou who did it.’ He grinned. ‘Got to be careful with builders. They can surprise you at times.’

  ‘I’ll surprise the fucker any day now.’

  Ivan glanced at the digital watch on his left wrist. He had abandoned his pinstripe suit for a navy turtleneck skivvy and matching chinos.

  ‘He’ll be here in about half an hour, I reckon.’ Ivan looked across at Angelo. ‘You know what to say.’ It was an order not a question.

  ‘Like a drink?’ From Angelo’s expression it was unclear whether this was what Ivan had instructed him to say or whether he was making him an offer. Shane walked behind the bar that stood along one side of the room.

  ‘Yeah, let’s all have a beer,’ he said. He spoke with the confidence of a man who knew he had no need to wait for his host and began
taking stubbies from the fridge. Angelo drew in an irritated breath before a mocking smile came to his face.

  ‘How did you enjoy your meal at Café Filipo the other night?’

  ‘OK,’ Shane replied, turning away.

  ‘You hadn’t told me you come from the same family as Mike Georgiou.’

  Shane looked up quickly from peering into the fridge to find the other four carefully watching him.

  ‘Not in the family. I live with his sister. She’s a very different type to that bastard.’

  Bruno took several steps towards Shane but Ivan gestured for him to stay. ‘Angelo, how did this interesting news come to light?’

  ‘Friday night. The whole family, celebrating old man Georgiou’s name day with dinner at Café Filipo, courtesy of Shane.’ Angelo turned to face him directly. ‘I hope you didn’t think Carla would give you a free ride. It’s only free in the private room when you’re with me. When the old guy introduced you he sure made it sound like you were part of the family.’

  Again Bruno stepped towards Shane and said, ‘Did you tip off Georgiou I was goin’ there with Ted Horton the other night? Someone did and, when I find him, I’ll kill the fucker.’

  ‘Yes, Shane, you do have some explaining to do,’ Ivan smoothly intervened. ‘But before you do, bring us those drinks and we will sit here quietly while you tell us all about your links with Mike Georgiou.’

  Angelo walked to the bar, picked up one of the stubbies and removed himself to sit in one of the three leather armchairs occupying the far end of the room. Ivan, Bruno and Rick took their places around a low wooden table closer to the bar and Shane carried the remaining bottles to the table. After downing about half of his, he began. ‘I met Mary about three years ago. She’s an attractive woman and we’ve had this on-again-off-again thing going. She can be a bad-tempered bitch at times. Maybe it runs in the family because brother Mike is a right bastard. I hate him. The old bloke tries to pretend they’re one big, happy family but more like one small, unhappy family I’d say. Mike walked out on his father’s greengrocer’s business years ago and hasn’t been forgiven. He and his wife are always having digs at one another. At least when Mary and I fight, it’s out in the open.’

  Shane looked around at his listeners and perhaps it occurred to him that he was showing too much knowledge of the Georgious. ‘I steer clear of them as much as I can, but Mary talks about them.’

  ‘And, seeing you’re in the same business as Mike Georgiou, you never have a chat with him about what we’re doing?’ Ivan asked.

  ‘Never. Not even his sister. Got into strife with her on Friday night when I wouldn’t tell her where I was coming today and what I’d be doing.’

  ‘So she was fishing?’ Ivan continued his questioning.

  ‘No way. Just a curious bitch who wants to own all of me.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell her that it’s me that owns all of you,’ Ivan said. ‘I hope you’ve been straight with us, Shane. We have a lot riding here and you know how nasty Bruno can get.’

  When the women brought the food there was hardly room on the tables for it all. The children had been press-ganged into carrying around plates of appetisers: deep fried tiganita, fava puree, Cretan dakos salad and grapevine packets of dolmadakra with pitta bread. On most days these would have made an adequate lunch but today they were merely the precursors to the dishes of moussaka, the slow-baked lamb kleftiko, the pork apaki and the fried ketedakia accompanied by a variety of salads. Mike was kept busy seeing all the diners were well provided with drinks: his father’s vintage wine, beer for the less refined palates and soft drinks for the ever-thirsty children. After a short recovery time, which was all Lissa allowed them, the tables were cleared and replenished with desserts and pastries: sticky katafi, deep fried loukoumodes, rich baklava and more of the walnut cake Mike had enjoyed the day before. When Lissa came from the kitchen bearing pots of thick coffee it was the signal the meal had reached its final phase. Mike wrapped an arm around her shoulders. ‘That was a superb meal you turned on,’ he enthused.

  ‘Your best ever, I reckon.’

  ‘Yeah, it does seem to have gone well.’

  ‘Dad is stoked. Get ready for a crushing hug.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ she said drily. ‘Are you proud of me?’

  ‘A pity your mum and dad couldn’t make it down from Coff ’s. They would have been really proud.’

  ‘They taught me. I didn’t learn it anywhere else.’

  Mike took his arm from her shoulder and drew back a little. ‘What’s this partnership between you and Mary?’

  Lissa’s cheeks deepened their colour. ‘Oh, that,’ she laughed.

  ‘Not really a good start with Mary out of action until the last moment.’ She paused as he continued to look enquiringly at her. ‘I’ve decided to go into catering – lunches and dinners for people in their own homes or businesses. Mary and I are going to be partners.’

  ‘Full time?’

  ‘Not at first. We need to see how it goes.’

  ‘When did you decide?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it for the past year, I guess. The kids don’t need the attention I used to give them. I haven’t got a career to take up. I only ever worked in Dad’s bakery and that’s well gone. But I reckon I can cook and Mary says I should have a go.’

  Mike could see there would be many issues in setting up and operating such a business, but now was not the time for mentioning them.

  ‘Great. I’m sure you’ll go really well.’

  He could hear the doubt in his voice and Lissa heard it, too. She tossed her head, but as he was about to explain he had no doubts about her ability, he was cut off by his aunt.

  ‘Lissa. A wonderful meal and so traditional. You have gone to so much trouble with such little help.’

  She was joined by others who offered their thanks and Lissa went to the table to dispense the coffee. Mike walked though to the rear of the house where he found his father in the sun-room, deep in discussion with Kostas. They stopped abruptly when he came in and Kostas said, ‘Your wife has put on a great meal.’

  ‘Yes, she has,’ Demetri agreed and got to his feet. ‘I must go to thank her.’

  ‘Sit down with me, Mike,’ Kostas said, patting the seat Demetri had just vacated. ‘I would speak with you.’ Before Mike was properly settled Kostas began. ‘It is time you followed the family calling. You have stayed away too long and your father is no longer young.’

  ‘Did he put you up to this?’

  Mike began to rise from his seat but Kostas put out a restraining hand. ‘Hear me out, Mike. Demetri does not put me up to anything. That is not the way we are with one another. But he does tell me about the business and his ambitions for it. Any fool, certainly this one, can see you are needed. You owe it to your father.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  Brioni, who seemed to have developed a talent for breaking into fraught conversations, had entered unnoticed and now stood over the two of them.

  ‘It was your mother’s dearest wish you should make use of your brains, go to the university, not be a gardener or a grocer. A great tragedy she died before she could see you reach the heights you have. An even greater tragedy if you throw it all away because of the pleas from these foolish old men. Come, Kostas, you have been drinking too much. You need coffee.’

  Kostas spread his hands and gazed at Mike before rising and following his wife.

  Vern turned off the main road, through a brick-pillared gateway and along a gravel driveway that wound through thick trees and brush. There was no sign of the house, well protected from the view of anyone who might pass. Mike had described the property he had seen in the magazine as ‘quite a place’. Perhaps Mike hadn’t seen it in a magazine at all but had been invited down, just as Vern had been today. No doubt he would soon come to a view of the sea, which the trees denied the cars on the main road but preserved for the Rossi family and their guests.

  Suddenly he came clear of the tr
ees and found himself on a paved area with no view beyond an extended carport, which looked much like the overflow car park at a three star motel. He pulled into a vacant space beside a Porsche and a black Land Cruiser. Could it be the black SUV? His ageing BMW looked quite humble in comparison with the other two. Humility would not serve him well today. The clouds had moved on and the sun was warm, so he took off his jacket and left it in the car. He was wearing one of his golf shirts with the Kingswood insignia on the breast pocket. He had played poorly yesterday, probably thinking too much about today and where it would lead. His regular partner, Paul Jones, was having a bad day as well, not helped by their opponents trying to pump him for his take on the latest scandals in the police force. As an assistant commissioner Paul Jones was far too experienced and shrewd to be caught out there but, like Vern, he considered golf a serious business with any chatting to be done in the bar afterwards.

  Vern strolled over to the Land Cruiser and inspected the front passenger side. There were streaks of mud from the wet road but the duco was flawless – too flawless. Not conclusive, but an indication that the side panel could have been replaced recently.

  He walked to the large, wooden door that divided the carport in two, the other section sheltering a quad bike and an empty trailer. Vern pressed the button beside the door and stepped back. The brutal facade made it clear to him that the house had been designed by one of those trendy architects who delighted in creating controversy. What would he find inside? Would the brutality continue with the bare forms of construction revealed for all to see? Or would the interior be full of architectural artifice, clamouring for attention? He had no truck with this kind of gimmickry. Give him a builder’s house every time. One like Jim’s that sat in plain view without pretension, solid and functional – an honest building.

  Vern was not surprised when the baseball-capped man he had seen beside the Yarra opened the door and led him down some steps into the house. What he found there did surprise him. His first sight was of natural clay tiles that flowed across the floor, beyond a curving glass wall and out to a swimming pool surrounded by a rockery with low shrubs that presented the pool as a natural water-hole and took the eye on to the land beyond. There, grassy dunes stood before a small bay guarded by ochre cliffs and wave-swept rocks that sparkled in the clear sun. Thick trees and scrub covering the upper part of the block continued down either side to the cliffs, framing the entire picture. It was hard to tell where the house ended and the view began.